


Grief

by theLiterator



Category: DCU
Genre: Brother Feels, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 14:42:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3253547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theLiterator/pseuds/theLiterator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of one-shots:</p><p>Damian may miss him more than he's ever missed anyone, but he's not the only one who loved Dick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [i've got an elastic heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3253193) by [naimeria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naimeria/pseuds/naimeria). 



> When Damian is sad, he goes to Dick's room.

It was, in keeping with the current theme of his day, Drake who found him.

"Whoa," Drake said, putting up his hands and freezing in the doorway. "You... I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"Leave, Drake," Damian snapped, shifting so his body (and his face) were turned away from the door.

"Uh, no?" Drake said, and he slipped fully into the room. He was quiet, because Lady Shiva had taught him to be quiet, and that somehow irritated Damian more than if he actually were clumsy and loud and obvious. "I mean, no. No, I'm not leaving. I... I come in here too, sometimes."

"Clearly," Damian said. One word answers were usually better than attempting to ignore Drake outright. Plus, his throat was too tight to give Drake the scathing response he _deserved_.

"Jeez," Drake said, then he shuffled in closer and sat on the bed. Damian palmed the hilt of his smallest knife, the only one he bothered carrying when he was _here_ , but he thought about Grayson and how he might react if he learned that Damian had murdered Drake on his bed.

Possibly he wouldn't be satisfied with merely throwing out the ruined mattress.

"It's okay, is all. I... I miss him a lot too."

"You had him longer," Damian protested. He tried to subtly wipe his face on the shoulder of his borrowed sweatshirt, but Drake noticed-- of course Drake noticed. Drake was the truest detective of all of them.

"Yeah, I did. And I'm grateful I did, because he was... he's amazing. The best."

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," Damian said. "I tried to protect him."

"'Course you did," Drake said. "But that's because it's what he teaches us. And he died protecting us, too, you know?"

"It isn't fair!" Damian screamed suddenly, surprising even himself. "It's _wrong_ and I-- I _hate_ father!"

Drake didn't flinch, didn't even try to pull away. Instead he slowly snaked an arm around Damian's shoulders, tugged him in. It wasn't Grayson, but it was Grayson's bedroom and Grayson's brother, so he allowed it.

He hurt too much to try to prevent it.

"But you do realize that it had to be you we brought back? Dick... if it came down to a choice of who got to live, who had to stay... gone. He would 100% of the time pick you over himself, no question. And... a lot of people would pick him. A _lot_. But if it was a you or him situation, he probably wouldn't forgive those people for picking him over you."

Damian couldn't bite back the sob.

"And it sucks, because that means it's you and me, and not me and him, no matter that you're in his bedroom and wearing his clothes and hugging me, right? And it sucks because it... it really should be you and him. You were... he loves you so, so much Damian."

"It's not enough," Damian whispered.

"It really, really isn't," Drake agreed, and Damian was embarrassed to feel Tim's cheek against his, hot and wet with tears. Couldn't he see how humiliating this shared weakness was? "But it's what we've got, and we've got to keep going, because if we figure out a way to bring him back too, he's going to kick our _asses_ if we don't."

_We were the best._


	2. Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of the boys has a nightmare.

Tim woke abruptly, sitting bolt upright and staring at the gleaming blade of a throwing knife.

Sure enough, Damian was standing in his doorway, looking, as usual, both constipated and smug. Tim sighed.

"Is there a reason you decided to wake me up at..." Tim glanced at his clock. "07:09?" An ungodly time of morning for a kid who tended to call four am to nine am prime sleeping hours.

"You're an idiot," Damian announced.

Tim sighed again. He gingerly picked up the throwing knife and in a fit of self-control he was sure even Bruce would be proud of, didn't fling it at Damian in return. It wasn't as if it would hit its mark anyway, he thought angrily.

"According to you, this is hardly news."

"You were keeping the whole manor awake with your inane whimpering. I simply sought to give my father and Alfred the rest they deserve."

"I--" Tim froze, and his exhausted, sleep-soaked brain finally registered Damian's appearance.

His pajamas weren't on straight, his hair was rumpled and there were dark circles under his red, raw eyes. "Yeah, because _I_ was really the one hav-- ah..."

He could do this. He could bridge this gap.

It was what Dick would do.

"I could really use... company. So I don't have another nightmare, you know?"

Damian scoffed and kicked viciously at the carpet. On any other kid, barefooted carpet kicking would be adorable, or maybe cause for a scolding-- Lord knew Tim had been scolded often enough for such unseemly displays of temper.

Well, whenever anyone had been around to see them.

From Damian it seemed only to underscore how utterly deadly every motion he made could be.

"Your weakness is unbecoming," Damian announced, but he crept nearer. Tim set the knife onto his nightstand and adjusted his blankets and pillows so a second body could be appropriately accommodated.

"Yeah, well, all the more reason for you to watch my back while I sleep, right?"

"Why _should_ I?" Damian demanded, even as he stepped a little nearer.

Well, Tim could almost see why Dick enjoyed the kid's company when he was so completely _transparent_.

"Because you're my brother, and that's what brothers do," Tim answered promptly.

Damian scoffed again, but he came near enough to take his knife back and conceal it on his person. Tim reflected that it had been almost uncharacteristically kind of Damian to throw the knife so it hit hilt first instead of simply non-fatally burying its point in some fleshy part of Tim's body.

"I'm _not_ ," Damian protested.

"Okay, well, then because you're Dick's little brother, and I'm Dick's little brother, and because Dick would have wanted you to watch my back."

Damian tilted his head and regarded Tim with wary, exhausted eyes. "Well, if you insist, I suppose it would be an acceptable arrangement."

"If it's to your liking, then, you demon brat, get in the bed. I'm tired, and I can only handle so much of you in one go," Tim snapped.

Damian nodded once, decisively, and then he curled up in the open spot Tim had made in the bed for him. He drew himself in tightly, protecting his chest and the soft parts of his stomach with his arms and legs, and Tim ached a little for that.

Not much, because he'd knew how deadly those limbs actually were, but enough that he settled down too, pressing his back firmly to Damian's.

"This is a reciprocal arrangement, by the way," Tim said, yawning. "I'll watch your back while _you_ sleep too."

"You will?" Damian said, sounding almost childlike, his voice a heartbreaking mix of hope and disbelief.

"As long as you need, Robin," Tim promised. Somehow, impossibly, the muscles in the back pressed against his relaxed, and, after a few minutes, the soft breathing evened out into a resting pattern. Tim closed his eyes and let himself sleep too.

He didn't have to be _awake_ to guard someone's dreams.


	3. Chapter 3

Tim wanders out onto the grounds, tablet in hand. He's looking for a place to hide away from the rest of the Manor’s inhabitants, permanent and transient, good and bad. What he finds is a game of fetch.

He has nothing against Titus; he’d been the one looking after him and playing with him just a few weeks ago, but he’s always known that Titus was not _his_ dog. It shouldn’t rankle to see that deadly serious focus on Damian’s face as he tosses a soggy tennis ball for the dog to chase.

It _definitely_ shouldn’t run him through with jealousy’s sharp sword, because he doesn’t _care_. Bruce may have never gotten him a dog, but Bruce has given him plenty that Damian will never have.

Training. Safety. Comfort.

Trust.

And besides, things between him and Damian had been… easier, lately. Less fraught with murderous intent and more-- fraternal. Not, of course, that brothers couldn’t feel murderous intent towards one another. But he’d spent the last few nights guarding Damian’s sleep, and they’d both been better off for it.

Still, watching Damian play with Titus is doing absolutely nothing good for his mood, and he’d meant to get _away_ from the dark thoughts and moods of the Manor. Instead, here he was being confronted by the source of those dark moods.

He turns to find a new venue, briefly distracting himself with the thought of ice cream in the city, and he gets hit hard from behind, first by the tennis ball, and immediately after by 140 pounds of dog.

He hits the ground hard, and his tablet skids out of reach.

Titus is whuffing into his hair and licking his _everything_ and Tim flips over and shoves him off. “Damian’s over _there_ ,” he snaps, throwing the tennis ball with all his strength at Damian, who _catches_ it, of course. Titus ignores the ball and tries to knock Tim down again.

“What is wrong with you?” Damian demands, rushing to grab at Titus’s collar and haul him back.

“Maybe his owner doesn’t have the proper _discipline_ to keep him under control,” Tim sneers, and it’s unkind and unbecoming of the man he wishes he actually were, but it’s only _Damian_ so it’s not like he’ll know the difference.

Damian slants him a murderous glare while he hangs on to Titus. “Not the dog, _you_. You didn’t need to push him so hard. He’s not a villain.”

Tim whirls and knocks Damian aside at that, and, freed, Titus promptly sits down and stares at Tim with sad eyes.

Damian recovers and stands just out of reach, and though he’s still glaring, there’s something penetratingly assessing about the glare. It reminds Tim, uncomfortably, of Bruce. He hastily bends to collect his tablet.

“Come here,” Damian demands.

Tim snorts and hugs the tablet to his chest. “Not on your life, Damian,” he says.

Probably a dumb move, he realizes about half a second before Damian tackles him, and he spends the next 5 seconds grappling with the other boy and then he’s face down in the grass again, this time with 100 pounds of muscular _boy_ on his back, his elbow hyper extended and his shoulder grinding painfully in its socket.

“Next time,” Damian growls, “Listen.”

“Not likely,” Tim grinds out from between his teeth. He’s furious. Furious and ready to commit murder, and, in the depths of his psyche, the parts that have yet to forget how he almost died at Damian’s hands, frightened.

“Leave my dog alone,” Damian hisses into his ear. “He hasn’t _done_ anything.”

“He’s _your_ dog,” Tim snarled.

“That’s never been enough for you before,” Damian whispers. If Tim didn’t know better, he’d say he might have hurt the kid’s feelings, except. Except he _does_ know the kid better, and he knows he has feelings, and that’s even _worse_.

“Well, it’s different with him,” Tim says. “ _You_ love him.”

Tim expects… a lot of things. A dislocated shoulder and elbow, a concussion, a knife to the kidney, a knife to the throat.

Instead, the hold is loosened, and Damian settles firmly on top of him. Titus ambles over to settle just next to them, and Damian reaches over to scratch his ears.

“What are you doing?” Tim asks after a few moments without death or agony.

“I am comforting you,” Damian says primly, adjusting his position so his face is pressed between Tim’s shoulder blades.

“I hate to break it to you, Damian, but this is _far_ from comfortable.”

“Physical affection often is,” Damian intones, nuzzling him slightly. Tim sighs and decides that this is, in fact, a fate far worse than death or maiming.

When he twists to get free, Damian flips up and digs a knee into his spine and presses a knife to his throat. Tim swallows hard.

“Why are you-- you were supposed to get _angry_.”

Damian flops down again, though the knife remains dangerously near Tim’s throat.

“I am angry,” Damian says. “But Grayson was often angry with me, and he would only ever… _embrace_ me."

“Dick’s dead,” Tim replies, because he’s afraid that if he doesn’t reinforce that notion at every chance, Damian will forget and go crazy like Bruce had.

“Exactly,” Damian says, and he slams his knife into the sod, blade first, and works his hands under Tim so he is being hugged.

Tim sighs, and when it seems that Damian isn’t going to let up, isn’t going to leave this weird _thing_ in the darkness of night where it belongs, he brings his aching arm back up to grip Damian tighter against his back.

“Okay,” he says.

Damian nods agreement into his shoulder blades, and Titus huffs out a breath and lays his head on Tim’s shoulder.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home Alone and recklessness.

He should be grateful, Damian thought. His only tasks anymore were to wander his ancestral home’s grounds and be idle. He had never had such an easy time of it.

It was awful though, choking and cloying, and he found himself pacing the border of the property over and over, until his legs and back ached from walking.

Until he was tired enough to sleep.

A movie that droned on quietly while his father patrolled alone gave him the idea, and he spent the next day crafting elaborate traps for anyone to stumble into using only items he could find above-ground. He imagined it was his grandfather challenging him, training him.

He imagined he was preparing for a siege.

He checked through the supplies in the pantries, and then he made a list of them, determining based on metabolic needs and expiration dates that they had enough food to last them six months. Eight if they killed Drake straight away, and nine if they preserved and consumed him.

He’d probably have to do that in secret though; Pennyworth was sentimental about such things.

Neither his father nor Pennyworth seemed to notice his siege preparations, but the postman got pelted with a rotting tomato when he stepped off the designated path, and Damian had to stand and patiently listen to his father’s lecture about civilians and how they were meant to be _protected_ and not assaulted by overripe tomatoes.

Damian had tried to protest that the system was automated, but his Father rarely allowed arguments while he was pointing out, yet again, that Damian’s honor code was flawed. It made his stomach roil, now, because he knew he couldn’t flee to Grayson in shame and anger and have someone tell him he was…

Wasn’t broken.

Even if it was a lie, especially now, with the ability to fly and the inability to die, it would be nice to hear it again.

Drake had been on a mission for six days, and it had been at least that long since Damian had slept more than an hour or so, so that Damian forgot, as he watched Drake saunter in through the front doors of the Manor. 

He tripped the first of the new interior defenses.

Damian hadn’t considered this, he realized, and he dropped from where he’d been curled up on the chandelier in the main foyer to knock Drake out of the way of his second interior defense, which was a bucket of pink dye.

Damian still wasn’t certain why Pennyworth had so much of that.

“Uh, thanks?” Drake said, sounding uncertain. Damian surveyed the wreckage of the foyer and considered that it had been too easy for him to rescue Drake from the second trap. He’d need to improve that.

“I’ll get the mop,” Damian said. “If you climb the balustrade, you should be able to get to your room. Don’t touch the walls.”

As he made his way to the kitchen, he stopped abruptly and turned around. “Don’t step on any carpets that have roses, but if they have both roses and lilies, they’re safe.”

“Oo-kay,” Drake acknowledged, sounding shell shocked. Damian scoffed. And he hadn’t even gotten dyed pink.

Drake was perched on the balustrade when Damian came back with the mop and a bucket of soapy water to clear up the dye (he also had an empty bucket to wring the mop in; he’d figured that out last time).

“So, what’s this all about then?” Drake asked. Damian scoffed.

“No, seriously. Did someone break in? Are we—are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Did you know that we have enough food in the Manor to last the four of us six months in the event of a siege or an apocalyptic event?”

“No,” Drake said, sounding bemused. “And that’s the sort of stuff I know. How much if you kill me the first week?”

“Eight months,” Damian said. “Nine if we eat you.”

“Hmm,” Drake said. “And with Dick?”

“Dick is dead,” Damian said coldly. “And he wouldn’t eat you. Pennyworth also would not eat you. Father would, but only if I didn’t tell him.”

“I thought you were a vegetarian,” Tim said. Damian sighed and wrung out his mop.

“I am,” he said. “I didn’t account for that. I’ll need to revisit my inventory; my nutritional needs might not be—“

“Whoa, hey, slow down—is this some sort of creepy Bat-training? Because you shouldn’t take it that seriously.”

Damian stared up at Drake. “I am barred from training. My meta abilities are too unpredictable.”

Drake sighed and dropped down, taking the mop from Damian. “When was the last time you went out?”

“I wouldn’t—“

“Yes you would, if you thought there was a good enough reason,” Drake said, and Damian flinched. “Wow, lower blow than I intended. Hey, no, hey—“ Drake was in his space now, too-close and dangerous. “Hey, come here,” Drake said. “Let’s get this cleaned up and get some sleep. I’ve been having nightmares again and it’s becoming a problem, okay?”

“I’m fine,” Damian asserted.

“You sure are something,” Drake muttered, then said brightly: “I’m pretty sure the house can handle itself without us for a few hours. I’m going to go grab another mop. Lilies yes, roses no, right?” Drake didn’t wait for Damian’s acknowledgement before he was wandering off, and Damian scowled at the floor and worked on cleaning up the dye.


	5. Chapter 5

“So let me get this straight,” Tim said, keeping up a façade of calm when all he really wanted to do was shake Bruce until his teeth rattled. “You want me, in my role as your adopted son, to go to a green energy conference in Houston?”

“It’s not as if you’ll actually be changing global energy policy. The board thinks someone should be there though, for appearances sake,” Bruce said. He was completely in his role of CEO at the moment, fingers steepled together, mouth firm, eyes glinting with dangerous intelligence.

“And you want it to be me and not… oh, I don’t know, Damian or Cassandra, because?” Tim asked, leaning forward so both hands were planted firmly on the executive desk, glaring at Bruce.

“Neither of them is suited to the role needed,” Bruce replied.

“Really? You seem to be forgetting the fact that Damian had your board eating out of his hand while you were… gone,” Tim said. “I was busy wandering around to world like a crazy hobo. Dick was…” he couldn’t even say it, because as true as it was, he didn’t want to watch Bruce’s face shutter blank the way it always did when Dick was mentioned more than in passing. “You should send Damian.”

“Damian is better off at the Manor,” Bruce said coolly.

“He really, really isn’t and if you think he is, then you’re less of a detective than everyone thinks you are. Unless what you really mean is that everyone else is better off with him locked away in the Manor, in which case you’re an ass.” Tim bit his lip to keep from saying ‘But we all knew that.’

“Are you going to shirk this responsibility?” Bruce asked in Batman-tones.

Tim scoffed and rolled his eyes. “No, I’m not. But I’m taking Damian with me.”

“That isn’t a good plan,” Bruce said.

“Yeah? Well at least _I’m_ not shirking my responsibilities,” Tim hissed and whirled on his heel to leave. The effect was probably ruined without a cape to flare out, but he didn’t even care at that point.

The thing that bothered him the most about the whole _Damian_ issue was that he was _supposed_ to be the kid’s biggest detractor. The problem with that was that with Dick gone, there wasn’t really anyone left rooting for the kid.

Like, sure, most of the world was indifferent to the individual idiosyncrasies of each Robin, but to those who knew, well—Damian was a murderer. And no one seemed able to let that go.

Sure, Bruce had ventured to the ends of the earth and back again to get him back, but now that he _had_ him back, it was all about how little Damian could be trusted on his own. And maybe Tim was crazy, or maybe he just had more experience with super-powered preteens, but it seemed like trying to suppress a kid’s meta abilities (or treat them like a fascinating test subject) was probably the exact wrong way to go about things.

“Hey, Damian,” Tim called as he entered the Cave. Damian was on the mats, fighting some combat simulation with his hands bound behind him. Being able to fly probably made that one a lot easier, Tim thought ruefully.

“Shut up,” Damian grated out. “No one respects you.”

Tim snorted. “Ain’t that the truth,” he said. “Anyway, I’ve already got Alfred packing your stuff, but I figure I might as well tell you before I drug you and kidnap you: we’re going to some energy conference. You ready to play Wayne Heir for a weekend?”

“What?” Damian asked. There was an audible snap as the bonds broke. Damian hastily picked up the cordage and stared at it with something akin to dismay. If Tim were a better person, if Tim were _Dick_ , he’d go and comfort the kid and his obvious distress. Instead, he ignored it.

“Houston. Me and you. I’d call it a road trip but I was planning on taking the jet.” He very deliberately didn’t ask Damian his opinion, because he’d be taking him whether he agreed or not.

“Father’s sending us to Houston?” Damian asked, and hope was obvious on his face.

“No; he said you’re confined to Manor grounds still,” he said, and it was probably a little sick how much pleasure he got from watching that hope shatter and wipe clean and blank into Bruce’s standard expression, but in Tim’s defense, Damian had tried to kill him. A lot. “ _I’m_ taking you to Houston.”

“Why?” Damian demanded, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Can’t be getting nightmares in the hotel, now, can I?” Tim said. “Wouldn’t be very playboy heir-esque.”

Damian nodded once, curtly, and when the simulation got sick of them standing there staring at each other suspiciously and squawked, he kicked it hard enough to leave a dent in the Cave wall.

“Yay,” Tim said, already regretting his decision to drag him along. “Houston.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, clearly someone needs to tell these boys Dick isn't dead.


End file.
